


Pulse point

by HelpingHanikan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I think Dyn Jarren is his name?, Love a man in uniform, One Shot, Reader Insert, Taken way more serious then it should be, based off Tumblr post, hookup, the mandalorian - Freeform, wrist kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21594043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelpingHanikan/pseuds/HelpingHanikan
Summary: It’s a one stop shop, one where everything gets done, and there’s nothing really new. Until there is new, then it’s up in the air whether it’s bad or not.
Relationships: Dyn Jarren/Reader, Mando/reader, Mando/you, The Mandalorian/Reader, The Mandalorian/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 137





	Pulse point

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a post on Tumblr about the Mandalorian's wrist being slightly visible in the first episode and it inspired this.

It’s incredibly difficult to map out sporadic encounters. This place was a stop and leave point; travelers come because their trips are longer than they expected. Just wanting a bed, wanting food, maybe company, all for one night and never to be thought of again. To be considered a regular at your one stop shop is to come in more then once a month. 

And a regular this guy was. Not the first Mandalorian to come in, not the first to come in multiple times, but the first you had a real response to.

Although you couldn’t map out his stops it always seemed to be right after a delivery. Boss lady yelling at you to bring in the crates, stacking them one on top of the other. First set down, he’s not there. Third set down, he talking to boss lady, running his fingers down a resources list to be delivered to his ship. By the last set, he’s still by the counter. This time waiting for you to lean against the same surface, the sign that the fruit, at least, has been sorted.

It had been a little dance at the start; _“Where are you coming from?”_

_“Western reaches, heading back to deliver my catch.”_

_“Bounty or merchandise?”_

_“Bounty,”_

_“Anyone fun?”_

_“Not as much as I was hoping for.”_

_“That sucks,”_

_“Yeah.”_

After listening and watching these dances for years you were an expert at it. Finally finding a good enough partner that make it short. One that was almost as experienced, you didn’t even have to take his hand to lead him anywhere.

Big boss lady was the face of the stop, only stepping into the back to make unseen exit. And on delivery days it was just a coincidence that every other worker disappeared until the day shift would be done. When the only thing left of the delivery was the heavier things you wouldn’t have been able to move by yourself.

Those same things made your “regular” visits easier. You’ve known very few who have been with the Mandalorian people, and even less that has seen under the armor, that being none. Plenty of people have their two credits to say about what is under it. Supposedly some race so hideous they wore the armor as cover, others say that they scar themselves in a secret ceremony, so they’d be shamed if they ever did. In the end did you really care? The point was that armor only ever came off just enough.

Even with that small amount, there was an unspoken rule that you weren’t allowed to look. After that first dance came another you had never done. Starting with a tip toed kiss to the top of T of his helm. An alteration to the first question not asked after going somewhere private. The answer coming when his thumbs, hands holding either of your elbows, gently press and rub against your skin. Not quiet a spin, but more of an encouraged turn for you to face the boxes.

This was the way it you had done it every time. One arm protecting your forehead from the uneven metal crate, the other reaching back. Grabbing the thickest part of his thigh, sometimes reaching far enough to catch his backside. Had it not been for his thicker pants there might have been a few hand-prints, you having to squeeze _hard_ just to let him know you were there, and yes, you were feeling him.

It’s funny how opposite he is compared to the presence he makes. Only time his hand went into your hair was to move it out of your face. Those gloves were a little too rough for your bare skin, grunting through closed teeth at his attempt to slide the gun worn gloves any further down. Instead massaging your through the work shirt, sometimes venturing under to your bra but even then, it was teetering on this side of rough.

It was up to you to find your own end. Either having to sacrifice your face to harsh surface of the crate or release your firm hold on your partner. Either way the decision came only when the voice inside you demanded it. Groaning in annoyance, every time, when you had to make your decision. Only needing a few movements, chasing the spot as your hips arch to stay with his.

Although you could hear through that helm it was it’s cool touch just below your neck that shouts when he’s close. One hand gripping your breast like a life line, the other holding himself up next to your head, bracing from pushing you too hard into the edge of the crate.

It took a little bit before you realized what was different this time around. Those too rough gloves moving your hair, pulling strands out of your mouth before bracing against the box. A few inches from your face, glove slacking in it’s job being rolled just a little down. The bracing over his forearm pulled just a little too tight that day, showing just a few (barely two) inches of exposed wrist.

It wasn’t hideously scarred like your childhood friends had said, no tattoos or odd colored skin. Based on what little evidence you had he was likely humanoid. Skin was tan, looking like it was from birth. The side facing you, inside of his wrist, was slightly paler then the outside.

You hadn’t meant to reach for it. Letting your head take the brunt of the crate in exchange for gently touching the only exposed skin of his you had ever seen.

In hindsight you had taken a step too far over the line touching him. Jumping straight over the line to gently hold him. Any illusion you gave to taking hold of him was acknowledge when he slowed. Cold between your shoulder blade was gone, abuse from the crate against your head leaving just as fast. Complete stopping on his part was only momentarily, starting again, only this time slower, knees bending to go deeper.

Your mouth opening was the only sign on your part that the change was acknowledged. Instead focusing on your lucky find. In another world you were just another scavenger who had found something great, something that worth more then any trader could give you. Thumb gently rubbing over the pulse point like it was a coin, pretending that rubbing it enough would show you anymore secrets. A hard breath more then you meant to give, a celebration on both ends worth voicing.

Just like a precious coin the urge to kiss your prize was almost overpowering. The terrifying thought that your prize could be ripped away by being greedy was stronger. Instead appreciating from a distance. Instead focusing on the excitement that had been growing in the deepest part of your stomach since your treasure first showed through the sand.

When that excitement reached your breasts, your thumb pressed a little harder then it should. Any fear of bending your treasure was gone with cold pressed almost too hard between your shoulders. Closing your eyes against the feeling that was more then overpowering, sight of your treasure possible lost forever.

This was the first time your idiot coworkers decided they actually had a job. Rounding through the doors with a laugh, immediately catching sight of an Mandalorian tightening his armor. Famous helmet T staring right at them. To anyone who wasn’t looking for an active fight, it was better then any glare. Especially when the woman behind him was stepping into his shadow, a hand trying to guard her face.

Although this time around was different the ending was the same. What little dressing was done was done mostly alone. Little gestures he had done before all meant so much now, pulling your skirt back down when he was done. So quickly you didn’t think that it was anyone but gravity, now feeling the press of his clothes on your back to move the fabric.

Most of the time you didn’t look at each other before departing. When you did, you’d just say; “The big boss lady should have your order ready by now,” with a small laugh. Making an exit while chuckling at your own joke that wasn’t a joke.

Again, this time was different. “Sorry,” You just said, leaving before he could stop you. Out another door that led to really nowhere, just somewhere to think.

You’d still be thinking about it when the next delivery came. Pretending not to be looking through the patrons for the T-helm.


End file.
